THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

GIFT  OF 
Walter  Allen 


/  f*+*4A*~- 


(L 


xv-«x-^       /TUxwui 


.  /U- 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


VILLA  RUBEIN,  AND  OTHER  STOVES 
THE  ISLAND  PHARISEES 
THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY 
THE  COUNTRY  HOUSE 
FRATERNITY 
THE  PATRICIAN 

A  COMMENTARY 
A  MOTLEY 

PLAYS  :  THE  SILVER  BOX 
JOY 
STRIFE 
JUSTICE 

THE  LITTLE  DREAM 
THE  PIGEON 


MOODS,  SONGS,  AND 
DOGGERELS 


BY 
JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1912 


Copyright,  1912,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

Published  March,  1912 


PR 


Mt 


TO 
MY  WIFE 


THE  Author's  thanks  are  due  to  the  Editors 
of  Scribner's  Magazine,  Atlantic  Monthly, 
English  Review,  Nation,  Outlook,  and  Daily 
Mail  for  permission  to  reprint  some  of  these 
verses. 

March  1912. 


CONTENTS 

MOODS 

PAGE 

A  Dream  3 

Courage  19 

Love  20 

Errantry  21 

Time  24 

*•  Acceptation  25 

The  Seeds  of  Light  26 

I  Ask  28 

Highland  Spring  29 

The  Downs  30 

Old  Year  31 

The  Moon  at  Dawn  33 

Serenity  34 

Nightmare  36 

On  a  Soldier's  Funeral  37 

Let  39 

Rhyme  of  the  Land  and  Sea  40 

Slum  Cry  41 

Autumn  by  the  Sea  42 

Magpie  44 

*-  Question  45 

Silver  Point  48 
ix 


PAGE 

Deflowered  49 

The  Soul  50 

Autumn  52 

Street  Lamps  54 

Persia — Moritura  56 

Gaulzery  Moor  58 

The  Moor  Grave  59 

The  Prayer  60 

Dedication  61 


SONGS 


Devon  to  Me!  65 

A  Mood  68 

Counting  the  Stars  69 

Straw  in  the  Street  71 

Cuckoo  Song:  Dartmoor  72 

•  Countryman's  Song  74 
Land  Song  of  the  West  Country       76 

Past  79 

When  Love  is  Young  81 

Wind  82 

Rose  and  Yew  83 

The  Cup  84 

Village  Sleep  Song  85 

x 


DOGGERELS 

PAGE 

Drake's  Spirit  89 

Plymouth  91 

The  Cliff  Church  92 

Promenade  94 

Tittle-Tattle  95 

The  Robin  97 

To  My  Dog  98 

"The  Birth  of  Venus"  100 
To  the  Spirit  of  Our  Times.  [1899]     101 

The  Flowers  104 

Hetaira  106 

The  Devon  Sage  107 

'-Rhyme  after  Rain  109 

Life?  in 


XI 


MOODS 


A  Dream 

I  dreamed.    Now  God  appeared  to  me, 
And  beckoned.    Forth,  in  night,  we  went 
To  where  a  tall  and  lonely  tree 
With  ropes  of  yew-dark  bough  was  bent. 
And,  crowned  by  fiery  sky  of  stars, 
God  said:  "0  man!  confess  thy  faith! 
The  word  thou  speakest  saves  or  bars, 
For  here  are  gallows  of  thy  death  1" 

Then,  staring  at  that  gallows  yew, 

And  all  the  starry  witness,  I 

With  ague  shuddered.    Well  I  knew 

That  I  must  speak,  and  tell  no  lie; 

For  if  in  cowardice  I  fled 

The  clean  confession  of  my  hope, 

God  would  not  spare,  but  hang  me  dead 

Within  that  twine  of  yew-dark  rope. 


Yet  even  while  I  strove  to  find 
Breath  for  my  words,  to  make  them  live, 
There  stabbed  such  pity  thro'  my  mind 
That  I  my  happy  life  must  give — 
Give  up  my  little  day,  my  all, 
With  this  my  unrepentant  breath, 
And  watch  my  choking  body  fall 
Condemned  by  my  own  words  to  death. 

For  surely  what  I  had  to  tell, 
The  doubting  story  of  my  trust, 
Denying  faith  in  Heaven  or  Hell, 
Would  make  me  very  gallows-dust 
To  this  dark  God  stark  standing  there, 
So  like  a  tall  black  shadow  flung 
Up  high  on  misty  midnight  air 
By  lighted  lanthorn  lowly  swung. 


And  all  my  days  of  past  delight, 
As  to  a  drowning  man  came  by — 
And  all  the  litanies  of  night — 
And  prayed,  and  spoke  me  tenderly. 
And  all  the  perfume  and  the  grace, 
The  stealing  beauty  of  this  earth, 
Put  out  its  fingers  to  my  face, 
And  softly  murmured  me  its  worth. 

I  saw  my  love  with  tender  eyes, 
And  unbound  hair,  and  girdle  free; 
I  watched  her  darken  with  surprise, 
And  cry:  "Dost  thou  abandon  me?" 
And  what  could  I  but  answer  then: 
"My  flower,  my  pearl,  my  summer  sky, 
When  God  requires  their  faith  of  men, 
What  can  they  do,  save  speak  and  die?" 


I  marked  the  pageantry  of  noon 
Once  more  with  gold  and  music  pass; 
I  saw  the  silvery  cold  moon 
Spill  her  last  glamour  on  the  grass; 
I  hung  once  more  above  that  stream, 
Whose  twining  waters  draw  me  down 
And  down  from  gazing,  till  I  seem 
Myself  to  be  that  water  brown. 

I  felt  the  last  sweet  wind  creep  up 
To  tell  his  tale  from  tree  to  tree, 
And  steal  his  scent  from  honey-cup 
And  shake  the  fragrance  over  me. 
I  heard  once  more  the  cuckoo's  call — 
And  ah!  the  misery  of  pain, 
To  know  that  once  was  once  for  all, 
And  I'd  not  hear  my  bird  again. 


I  heard  a  last  proud  battle-cry, 
And  felt  my  pulses  leap  once  more, 
And  saw  bright  lances  pierce  the  sky 
And  all  the  wizardry  of  war. 
I  felt  once  more  the  wings  of  sleep 
Soft  closing  round  my  drowsy  head, 
And  pressed  my  languid  being  deep 
Within  the  snowdrift  of  my  bed. 

Then,  as  I  choked,  and  manned  my  soul 
For  death,  two  stars  came  flying  low, 
As  might  some  disembodied  owl, 
Circling  unsighted,  but  for  glow 
Of  its  twin  yellow  eyes;  then  all 
The  owlish  stars  came  clustering  near; 
And  from  its  horrid  grandeur  tall 
That  gallows-yew  bent  down  to  hear. 


And  faint  I  spoke:  "I  know  my  faith 
But  shadows  that  required  of  men. 
Yet,  0  thou  God!  if  only  wraith 
Of  creed  I  hold,  'tis  all  I  can. 
For  well  I  know  that  he  is  base 
Who  hides  in  grey  hypocrisy, 
And  glib  pretends,  to  save  his  face, 
And  says  'I  see/  who  does  not  see. 

"This  then,  O  God!  is  all  my  creed: 
In  the  beginning  there  was  still 
What  there  is  now,  no  less,  no  more; 
And  at  the  end  of  all  there  will 
Be  just  as  much.    There  is  no  score 
Of  final  judgment.    Wonder's  tale 
Will  never,  never  all  be  told. 
There  will  be  none  without  the  pale, 
No  saint  elect  within  the  fold. 


8 


"If  then  this  mighty  magic  world 
Has  always  been,  will  ever  be, 
There  must  be  laws  within  it  curled 
That  spin  it  thro'  eternity. 
I  see  two  equal  laws  obey 
One  sovran,  never-captured  Law — 
For  all  this  world  would  melt  away 
If  Heart  of  Mystery  we  saw. 

"And  first  of  these  twin  equal  laws 
Is  that  dynamic  force  which  flows 
In  life — of  every  birth  the  cause — 
Replumes  the  tree,  and  swells  the  rose; 
Inflames  and  clouds  the  violet  Spring, 
Inhabits  all  the  mighty  flood, 
The  breezes'  lightest  whispering, 
The  every  impulse  of  our  blood. 


"That  spirit  force  which  cannot  tire 
Of  franchisement,  and  keeps  no  troth; 
Nor  ever  rests  from  building  spire 
And  painting  colours  on  the  moth. 
A  quenchless  flame  that  licks  all  air, 
And  lights  and  drives  the  wandering  star, 
That  dyes  with  gold  the  maiden's  hair, 
And  rives  with  frost  the  granite  spar. 

"The  second  equal  law  is  this: 
Implicit  deep  in  all  increase 
And  stir  of  living  things,  there  is 
A  nothingness,  a  fate  of  peace, 
A  night,  a  death,  an  ebbing  down, 
A  fading  out  of  life.    The  bush, 
That  burgeons,  dons  a  funeral  gown; 
And  every  tune  contains  its  hush. 


10 


"All  forms  upswelling  have  within 
Their  hearts  a  static  decadence; 
In  utter  stillness  does  the  thin 
Reverberation  lose  its  sense; 
To  ash  the  spark  of  spirit  dies, 
Each  revolution  of  each  sphere, 
Each  swoop  of  every  bird  that  flies 
To  its  own  stilly  death  draws  near. 

"And  there's  between  these  laws  the  leap, 
And  drive,  and  stir  of  endless  war; 
The  sway  from  rage  of  lust  to  sleep, 
And  all  the  cosmic  whims  that  mar 
Perfection.    From  this  Strife  is  born 
All  variance  of  shape  and  flight — 
As  clouds  of  mountain  sunset  torn 
From  slumber-grey  by  flare  of  light. 


ii 


"Yet  these  two  laws,  so  fixed  apart 

As  day  and  night,  are  brought  to  fold 

Within  that  one  and  Sovran  Heart 

Whose  secret  never  shall  be  told, 

Yet  shall  thro'  time,  and  thro'  all  space 

With  mystery  pervade  the  world, 

And  make  it  holier  than  face 

Of  dawn  that  sun  and  mist  have  pearled. 

"That  Sovran  Heart  is  Harmony! 
Its  eyes  unseen,  its  ways  unknown. 
Tis  utter  Justice;  boundless  Sea 
Of  Unity;  and  Secret  Throne 
Of  Love;  a  spirit  Meeting  Place 
Of  vital  dust  and  mortal  breath, 
That  needs  no  point  of  time  or  space 
To  bind  together  Life  and  Death. 


12 


"Tis  thus,  O  God!  I  see  the  Vast— 
Self-fashioned,  and  Self-wonderful — 
A  jewel  infinite,  so  fast 
With  secret  light,  can  never  dull; 
It  is  all  Space,  so  cannot  fall, 
It  is  all  Motion,  may  not  move, 
It  is  of  Time  the  very  all, 
And  has  within  itself  all  Love. 

"And  that  brief  gathering  of  dust 
And  breath — myself — doth  bear  this  All 
Resemblance,  both  of  outer  crust 
And  inner  fire,  perpetual. 
I  too,  a  battlefield  of  laws, 
Am  rhymed  with  Harmony  Divine — 
That  knows,  alone,  the  utter  cause 
Of  me;  and  can  the  end  define. 


"Yea,  I  am  nothing  but  a  gleam 

Of  mystery — a  tiny  pearl 

Of  sunlit  water,  but  a  dream 

Immune  from  waking.    Through  the  whirl 

Of  ages  I  shall  never  earn 

Reality;  and  if  I  might, 

I  would  not.    Wherefore  should  I  yearn 

To  lift  the  veil,  and  strip  delight? 

"Though  rush  and  stab  of  pain  bemuse; 
And  snakes  of  evil  coil  me  round 
With  slimy  torment;  dark  with  hues 
Ironic,  Grief  and  Pity  hound 
Me  to  rebel  with  aching  heart — 
Rebel,  rebel  until  I  die! 
Yet  in  my  secret  soul  apart 
The  whole  is  rhymed — that  know  I. 


"If  through  our  night  stalk  comrades  Pain 

And  Wrong,  'tis  but  the  dipping  half 

Of  equipoise.    This  life  again 

I  shall  not  live,  and  I  would  have 

My  living  soul  in  flower  with  love 

Of  Harmony — that  so  my  death 

Shall  be  no  fall,  and  no  remove, 

But  reconcilement's  very  breath." 

I  ceased.  Then  that  dark,  tail-up  Thing 
Of  Terror,  that  great  shadow  flung 
On  curtained  Night,  black-menacing, 
Stretched  hand  to  where  the  gallows  hung. 
And  all  the  owlish  stars  abased 
Their  staring;  and  the  yew-ropes  twined 
To  catch  me,  where  I  desperate  faced 
Him — all  my  eager  life  resigned. 


Yet,  in  that  bravery  of  soul 

Which  flames  in  icy  clutching  death, 

I  bade  my  parching  tongue  outroll 

The  last  defiance  of  my  breath: 

"Thou  art  not  Him  I  know!    Thou  hast 

No  part  in  all  my  vision.    Thou 

Art  Dissonance  and  Hatred.    Fast 

Is  my  God  throned.    No  God  art  Thou!" 

Then  all  the  firmament  gave  groan 
Of  death.    And  lo!    That  was  not  there! 
The  curious  stars  had  winged,  and  gone 
To  their  far  glitter;  all  the  air 
Was  crystal.    Swift,  the  gallows  yew, 
Unbinding  all  her  branches,  meshed 
My  face  with  shade;  and  sudden  dew 
With  frost  my  nightmared  soul  refreshed. 


16 


And  there  around  me  dark  had  flowered 

With  day;  and  summer  moths  as  bright 

As  amethysts  uprose,  and  towered, 

To  gem  with  colour  all  the  night. 

The  blossoms  smelled  like  noon,  and  shone 

In  crimson  patines  on  the  dark. 

And — wonder!    Carolling  alone 

In  sky  of  night,  I  heard  a  lark. 

A  silent  music — grass  and  leaf, 
And  stream,  and  whispered  morning — blew 
Around  me;  and  a  burning  sheaf 
Of  Sun,  in  darkness,  glistened  thro'. 
The  breathless  wind,  of  fire  and  frost, 
Flew  to  the  leaves,  yet  stirred  not  one. 
And  round  me  all  the  happy  host 
Of  life  was  flying,  yet  had  flown. 


No  more  were  life  and  death  apart, 
No  more  the  winter  longed  for  June. 
And  oh!  the  marriage  in  my  heart 
Of  sun  and  shadow,  hush  and  tune! 
It  still  was  night,  and  yet  was  day! 
O  magic  dream  of  God  revealed, 
Of  waking  sleep,  and  golden-grey — 
O  Utter  Mystery  unsealed! 


18 


Courage 

Courage  is  but  a  word,  and  yet,  of  words, 
The  only  sentinel  of  permanence; 
The  ruddy  watch-fire  of  cold  winter  days, 
We  steal  its  comfort,  lift  our  weary  swords, 
And  on.    For  faith — without  it — has  no  sense ; 
And  love  to  wind  of  doubt  and  tremor  sways; 
And  life  for  ever  quaking  marsh  must  tread. 

Laws  give  it  not,  before  it  prayer  will  blush, 
Hope  has  it  not,   nor  pride  of  being  true. 
'Tis  the  mysterious  soul  which  never  yields, 
But  hales  us  on  and  on  to  breast  the  rush 
Of  all  the  fortunes  we  shall  happen  through. 
And   when   Death   calls   across   his   shadowy 

fields — 
Dying,  it  answers:   "Here!    I  am  not  dead!" 


Love 

O  Love ! — that  love  which  comes  so  stealthily, 
And  takes  us  up,  and  twists  us  as  it  will — 
What  fever'd  hours  of  agony  you  bring! 
How  oft  we  wake  and  cry :  "  God  set  me  free 
Of  love-Hx)  never  love  again!"    And  still 
We  fall,  and  clutch  you  by  the  knees,  and 

cling 
And  press  our  lips — and  so,  once  more  are 

glad! 

And  if  you  go,  or  if  you  never  come, 
Through  what  a  grieving  wilderness  of  pain 
We  travel  on!    In  prisons  stripped  of  light 
We  blindly  grope,  and  wander  without  home. 
The  friendless  winds  that  sweep  across  the 

plain — 

The  beggars  meeting  us  at  silent  night — 
Than  we,  are  not  more  desolate  and  sad! 


20 


Errantry 

Come!    Let  us  lay  a  crazy  lance  in  rest, 
And  tilt  at  windmills  under  a  wild  sky! 
For  who  would  live  so  petty  and  unblest 
That  dare  not  tilt  at  something  ere  he  die, 
Rather  than,  screened  by  safe  majority, 
Preserve  his  little  life  to  little  ends, 
And  never  raise  a  rebel  battle-cry! 

Ah!  for  the  weapon  wistful  and  sublime, 
Whose  lifted  point  recks  naught  of  woe  or 

weal, 

Since  Fate  demands  it  shivered  every  time! 
When  in  the  wildness  of  our  charge  we  reel 
Men  laugh  indeed — the  sweeter  heavens  smile, 
For  all  the  world  of  fat  prosperity 
Has  not  the  value  of  that  broken  steel! 


21 


Ah !  for  the  summons  of  a  challenge  cry 
That  sets  to  swinging  fast  the  bell  which  tolls 
A  high  and  leaping  chime  of  sympathy 
Within  that  true  cathedral  of  our  souls 
Set  in  our  bodies'  jeering  market-place — 
So,  crystal-clear,  the  shepherd's  wayward  pipe 
From  feasts  his  cynical  soft  sheep  cajoles. 

God  save  the  pennon,  ragged  to  the  dawn, 
That  signs  to  moon  to  stand,  and  sun  to  fly ; 
And  flutters  when  the  weak  is  overborne 
To  stem  the  tide  of  fate  and  certainty. 
That  knows  not  reason,  and  that  seeks  no 

fame — 

But  has  engraved  around  its  stubborn  wood 
The  words:   "Knight-Errant,  till  Eternity!" 


22 


So !    Undismayed  beneath  the  serried  clouds, 
Raise  up  the  banner  of  forlorn  defence — 
A  jest  to  the  complacency  of  crowds — 
Bright-haloed  with  the  one  diviner  sense: 
To  hold  itself  as  nothing  to  itself; 
And  in  the  quest  of  its  imagined  star 
To  lose  all  thought  of  after-recompense ! 


Time 

Beneath  this  vast  serene  of  sky 
Where  worlds  are  but  as  mica  dust, 
From  age  to  age  the  wind  goes  by; 
Unnumbered  summer  burns  the  grass. 
On  lion  rocks,  at  rest  from  strife 
The  aeons  are  but  lichen  rust. 
Then  what  is  man's  so  brittle  life? — 
The  buzzing  of  the  flies  that  pass! 


24 


Acceptation 

Blue  sky,  grey  stones,  and  the  far  sea, 

The  lark's  song  trilling  over  me; 

Grey  stones,  blue  sky,  and  the  green  weed- 

You  have  no  sense  that  I  can  read; 

Nor  on  the  wind's  breath  passing  by 

Comes  any  meaning  melody! 

Blue  sky,  grey  stones,  and  the  far  sea, 

Lark's  song,  green  weed,  wind  melody — 

You  are!    And  I'll  contented  be! 


The  Seeds  of  Light 

Once  of  a  mazy  afternoon,  beside  that  southern 
sea, 

I  watched  a  shoal  of  sunny  beams  come  swim- 
ming close  to  me. 

Each  was  a  whited  candle-flame  a-flickering  in 
air; 

Each  was  a  silver  daffodil  astonied  to  be 
there ; 

Each  was  a  diving  summer  star,  its  brightness 
come  to  lave; 

And  each  a  little  naked  spirit  leaping  on  the 
wave. 


26 


And  while  I  sat,  and  while  I  dreamed,  beside 

that  summer  sea, 
There  came  the  fairest  thought  of  all  that 

ever  came  to  me: 
The  tiny  lives  of  tiny  men,  no  more  they 

seemed  to  mean 
Than  one  of  those  sweet  seeds  of  light  sown 

on  that  water  green; 
No  more  they  seemed,  no  less  they  seemed, 

than  shimmerings  of  sky — 
The  little  sunny  smiles  of  God  that  glisten 

forth  and  die. 


27 


I  Ask 

My  happy  lime  is  gold  with  flowers; 
From  noon  to  noon  the  breezes  blow 
Their  love  pipes;  and  the  wild  bees  beat 
The  drums  of  all  these  summer  hours  .  . 
Yet  stifling  in  the  valley  heat 
A  woman's  dying  there  below! 

Between  the  blowing  rose  so  red 
And  honey-saffroned  lily  cup, 
Receiving  Heaven,  so  I  lie!  ... 
But  down  the  field  a  calf  lies  dead;* 
At  this  same  burning  summer  sky 
Its  velvet  darkened  eye  looks  up. 

•  ••••*•* 

Behind  the  fairest  masks  of  life 
Dwells  ever  that  pale  constant  death. 
What,  then,  Philosophers,  to  say? 
Must  we  keep  wistful  death  to  wife? 
Or  hide  her  image  quite  away, 
And,  wanton,  draw  forgetful  breath? 


28 


Highland  Spring 

There's  mating  madness  in  the  air, 
Passionate,  grave.    The  blossoms  burst; 
The  burns  run  quick  to  lips  athirst; 
And  solemn  gaze  the  maids  heart-free. 

The  white  clouds  race,  the  sun  rays  flare 
And  glamour — gold  on  pallid  mist; 
With  greedy  mouth  the  Spring  has  kissed 
The  wind  that  links  the  sky  with  sea. 

The  blue  and  lonely  mountains  stare, 
And,  longing,  draw  the  blue  above. 
The  hour  is  come!    O  Flower  of  Love — 
I  can  no  longer  keep  from  thee! 


29 


The  Downs 

Oh !  the  Downs  high  to  the  cool  sky ; 
And  the  feel  of  the  sun-warmed  moss; 
And  each  cardoon,  like  a  full  moon, 
Fairy-spun  of  the  thistle  floss; 
And  the  beech  grove,  and  a  wood-.dove, 
And  the  trail  where  the  shepherds  pass; 
And  the  lark's  song,  and  the  wind-song, 
And  the  scent  of  the  parching  grass! 


Old  Year 

To-night  Old  Year  must  die, 
And  join  the  vagabonding  shades  of  time, 
And  haunt,  and  sob,  and  sigh 
Around  the  tower  where  soon  New  Year  will 
chime. 

How  fast  the  slim  feet  move! 

The  fiddles  whine,  the  reedy  oboes  flute ; 

Lips  whisper,  eyes  look  love — 

And  Old  Year's  dying,  dying  underfoot! 

So  mute,  and  spent,  so  wan- 
Poor  corse! — beneath  the  laughter  flying  by; 
The  revel  dances  on 

And  treads  you  to  the  dust — condemned  to 
die! 


Among  the  flowers  that  soon 

Will  cling  and  breathe  above  your  pallid 
death, 

On  with  the  rigadoon! 

Dance,  dance!  Be  uttered  never  a  mourn- 
ing breath!  .  .  . 

The  moonlight  floods  the  grass, 

The  music's  hushed,  and  all  the  festal  din; 

The  pale  musicians  pass, 

Each  clasping  close  his  green-cased  violin. 

Old  Year!  not  breathing  now, 
Along  the  polished  floor  you  lie  alone; 
I  bend,  and  touch  your  brow — 
My  dead  Year,  that  has  slipped  away  and 
gone! 


The  Moon  at  Dawn 

When,  every  dawn,  the  homeless  breeze 
Creeps  back  to  wake  the  sleeping  trees, 
The  moon  steals  down  and  no  one  sees! 

Yes!  every  morn,  no  watcher  there, 
She  turns  that  face,  once  angel  fair, 
And  smiles,  as  only  harlots  dare! 

•  ••••••• 

I  saw  her  once,  the  insatiate  moon, 
Go  stealing,  coiffed  with  orange  hood, 
From  Night,  her  lover,  still  in  swoon — 
All  wanton  she,  who  chaste  was  wooed! 


33 


Serenity 

The  smiling  sea 

And  land  do  dream,  and  sky; 

The  very  bee 

Doth  dream  as  he  goes  by. 

In  dreamy  fields 
Of  blue,  moon's  scimitar 
Doth  dream  it  shields 
One  dreaming  timid  star. 

The  barques  drift  slow, 
And,  dreaming,  melt  away 
Where  golden  glow 
Consoles  the  death  of  day; 


34 


And  land  is  stark 

With  that  far  row  of  trees 

Like  puff-balls,  dark, 

And  eerie,  down  the  breeze. 

The  dreaming  flowers, 
The  dreaming  lovers  nod. 
Serene  these  hours — 
Serenity  is  God! 


Nightmare 

There  fell  a  man  in  the  heat, 
Out  of  the  race  he  ran, 
Who  knew  too  well  he  was  not  beat- 
O  God!    Was  I  that  man? 


On  a  Soldier's  Funeral 

No  pipes  have  skirled; 
But  Heaven's  wildest  music  blares! 
Above  the  compound  lightning  flares, 
The  rain  is  whirled. 

No  drums  shall  roll — 
"Pis  but  a  private  soldier  gone! 
The  cold  light  paints  no  funeral  stone 
No  bell  need  toll! 

He  lived  his  tame 
And  little  day  of  silent  tasks 
And  silent  duty — no  one  asks 
To  know  his  name. 


37 


The  milestones  fade 
Along  the  road  that  he  has  come. 
No  cheer  of  music  takes  him  home — 
His  wage  is  paid. 

The  wind  shrills  high, 
The  rapid  day  is  chasing  grief 
With  lash  of  blinding  rain — and  brief 
The  footfalls  die. 


Let 

My  love  lived  there!    And  now 
'Tis  but  a  shell  of  brick, 
New-painted,  flowered  about — 
So  far  from  being  quick 
As  night,  when  stars  die  out. 

From  windows  gaily  wide, 
Where  once  the  curtained  dark 
My  Heaven  used  to  hide, 
The  memories  wan  and  stark 
Troop  down  to  me  outside. 


39 


Rhyme  of  the  Land  and  Sea 

By  the  side  of  me — the  immortal  Pan — 

Lies  the  sweetest  thing  of  the  sea; 

In  her  gown  of  brine, 

With  her  breast  to  mine, 

And  her  drowned  dark  hair  lies  she! 

And  her  eyes  that  have  looked  on  the  fathomy 

weed, 
So  mournful  are  fixed  on  me: 

"I  am  thy  slave,  O  Master,  O  Pan! 

And  never  shall  more  be  free!" 

But  her   smile — like   the   wine-red,   shadowy 

sea, 

When  the  day  slides  past  and  down — 
By  the  gods,  it  is  tender  death  to  me! 
In  its  waters  dark  I  drown! 

"O  slave  of  mine!    Thou  mystery 

Of  srniling  depths — I  drown!" 


40 


Slum  Cry 

Of  a  night  without  stars — wind  withdrawn, 
God's  face  hidden,  indignity  near  me, 
Drink  and  the  paraffin  flares  to  sear  me — 
Dust-coloured  hunger — so  was  I  bora! 

Of  a  city  noonday — sand  through  sieve 
Sifting  down,  dusk  padding  the  glamour — 
I  of  the  desolate,  white-lipped  clamour 
Millioning  fester — so  do  I  live! 

Of  a  poor-house  morning — not  asking  why, 
Breath  choked,  dry-eyed — death  of  me  star- 
ing; 

Faces  of  strangers,  and  no  one  caring — 
God!  who  hath  made  me! — so  shall  I  die! 


Autumn  by  the  Sea 

We'll   hear   the   uncompanioned   murmur   of 

the  swell, 

And  touch  the  drift-wood,  delicately  grey, 
And  with  our  quickened  senses  smell 
The  sea-flowers  all  the  day! 

We'll    count    the    white    gulls   pasturing   on 

meadows  brown, 

And  gaze  into  the  arches  of  the  blue, 
Till  evening's  ice  comes  stealing  down 
From  those  far  fields  of  dew. 

Now  slow  the  crimson  Sun-god  swathes  his 

eye,  and  sails 

To  sleep  in  his  innumerable  cloak; 
And  gentle  heat's  gold  pathway  fails 
In  autumn's  opal  smoke! 


42 


Then  long  we'll  watch  the  journey  of  the 

soft  half-moon — 
A    gold-bright    moth    slow-spinning    up    the 

sky, 

And  know  the  dark  flight — all  too  soon — 
Of  land-birds  passing  by. 

Through  all  the  black  wide  night  of  stars 

our  souls  shall  touch 

The  sky,  in  God's  own  quietude  of  things, 
And  gain  brief  freedom  from  this  clutch 
Of  Life's  encompassings. 


43 


Magpie 

O  Magpie,  lonely  flying — 
What  do  you  bring  to  me? 
Two  for  joy,  and  one  for  sorrow! 
Loved  to-day,  is  lost  to-morrow! 
O  Magpie,  flying,  flying — 
What  have  you  brought  to  me? 


44 


Question 

Where    do    we   go,   brothers,   when    we    are 

done — 

Where  drift,  free  of  dull  clay? 
Hover — dancing  beams  of  the  sun, 
Sheen  of  moon  on  the  night  woods  fey? 

Are  we  a  cry,  brothers,  wind  in  the  trees — 
Bough  songs,  whispering  by? 
Wild-grass  music  under  the  breeze? 
River's  chuckle  and  reedy  sigh? 

Shall  we  be  flower  cups,  golden  and  white, 
Field  stars — lighted  each  noon? 
Dew-grey  cobwebs,  spun  in  the  night — 
We  grand  travellers,  gone  so  soon? 


45 


Are  we  the  desolate  moods  of  the  sea, 
Vague  rhyme,  lap  of  green  waves? 
Grey  bird's  call;  the  hum  of  the  bee; 
Bat's  shrill  gibber  in  eerie  caves? 

Light  on  the  fern — shadows  spilled  from  the 

leaves ; 

Bud-gold,  dyed  in  spring  dawn; 
Ivied  satin  under  the  eaves; 
Wind-blown  silver  of  summer  corn? 

Are  we  the  griefs  buried  deep  in  dear  hearts — 
Sore  left — mourning  us  gone? 
Watching  yew-tree's  shadowy  darts; 
Rain-drops,  sad,  on  the  funeral  stone? 


Shall  we  flit  comforting  over  the  earth — 
Brave  thoughts,  ghosts  of  kind  days; 
Soft  console  each  quavering  birth; 
Death's  old  whispering  footsteps  praise? 

Where  is  the  home  for  us?    Let  it  be  told, 
Thou  dark  God,  and  I  cease! 
Not  till  wings  of  Mystery  fold 
May  my  question  rest  in  peace! 


47 


Silver  Point 

Sharp  against  a  sky  of  grey 
Pigeon's  nest  in  naked  tree; 
All  the  silver  twigs  up-curled, 
All  the  leafy  spirits  furled; 
Not  a  breath  to  fan  the  day! 

World  aspiring  and  severe, 
Not  a  hum  of  fly  or  bee, 
Not  a  song,  and  not  a  cry, 
Not  a  perfume  stealing  by; 
Stillest  moment  of  the  year! 


Deflowered 

Here  I  come,  to  my  trade! — 
Look  back  at  me,  sad  men!- 

What  I  am  now,  you  made — 
A  ghost,  a  painted  murrain. 

Here  I  stand,  in  the  dark! — 
Look  back  at  me,  sad  men!- 

The  gay  hours  that  I  mark 
Will  never  strike  again. 

Here  I  droop,  in  the  night! — 
Look  back  at  me,  sad  men!- 

The  dark  flower  of  delight 
Bedrabbled  down  with  rain. 


49 


The  Soul 

My  soul's  the  sky — my  flying  soul! 
The  lightnings  flare,  the  thunders  roll, 
The  sun  and  moon  and  stars  go  by, 
And  great  winds  sweep  my  soul,  the  sky! 

My  brooding  soul — my  soul's  the  sea! 
The  snaky  weed,  and  whishing  scree, 
The  white  waves'  surge  from  pole  to  pole, 
And  still  green  depths — the  sea's  my  soul! 

My  soul's  the  Spring — my  loving  soul! 
Will  dance,  and  leap,  and  drain  the  bowl 
Of  love;  and,  longing,  twine  and  cling 
To  all  the  world — my  soul's  the  Spring! 


My  fevered  soul!    My  soul's  the  Town! 
Thro'  flaring  street  goes  up  and  down; 
The  bells  of  feast  and  traffic  toll 
And  maze  their  music  in  my  soul. 

My  tranquil  soul!    My  soul  too  wide 
For  Sky,  or  Spring,  or  Town,  or  Tide! 
Thou  traveller  to  outer  strand 
Of  Home  Serene — my  soul  so  grand! 


Autumn 

When  every  leaf  has  different  hue, 
And  flames  of  birch  tree  blow; 
And  high  against  November  blue 
The  white  cloud's  bent  in  bow; 

When  buzzard  hawk  wheels  in  the  Sun, 
And  harsh  daws  crown  the  cleave, 
And  autumn  paints  the  heather  dun, 
And  white  buds  make  believe; 


When  droning  thresher  hums  its  song 
And  tale  of  harvest  proves, 
And  rusty  steers  the  lane-ways  throng, 
And  grey  birds  flit  in  droves; 

Then  bird,  and  beast,  and  every  tree, 
And  those  few  flowers  that  blow, 
Do  seem  such  treasure-loves  to  me 
Who  would  no  winter  know! 


S3 


Street  Lamps 

Lamps,  lamps!  Lamps  ev'rywhere! 
You  wistful,  gay,  and  burning  eyes, 
You  stars  low-driven  from  the  skies 
Down  on  the  rainy  air. 

You  merchant  eyes,  that  never  tire 
Of  spying  out  our  little  ways; 
Of  summing  up  our  little  days 
In  ledgerings  of  fire — 


54 


Inscrutable  your  nightly  glance, 
Your  lighting  and  your  snuffing  out, 
Your  flicker  through  the  windy  rout, 
Guiding  this  mazy  dance. 

O  watchful,  troubled  gaze  of  gold, 
Protecting  us  upon  our  beats — 
You  piteous  glamour  of  the  streets, 
Youthless,  and  never  old! 


55 


Persia— Moritura 

Home  of  the  free!    Protector  of  the  weak! 
Shall  We  and  this  Great  Grey  Ally  make  sand 
Of  all  a  nation's  budding  green,  and  wreak 
Our  winter  will  on  that  unhappy  land? 
Is  all  our  steel  of  soul  dissolved  and  flown? 
Have  fumes  of   fear   encased   our   heart  of 

flame? 

Are  we  with  panic  so  deep-rotted  down 
In  self,  that  we  can  feel  no  longer  shame 
To    league,    and    steal    a    nation's    hope    of 

youth  ? 

Oh!    Sirs!    Is  our  Star  merely  cynical? 
Is    God    reduced?    That    we    must    darken 

truth, 
And   break   our   honour   with   this   creeping 

fall? 


Is  Freedom  but  a  word — a  flaring  boast? 
Is  Self -concern  horizon's  utter  sum? 
If  so — To-day  let  England  die,  and  ghost 
Through  all  her  godless  history  to  come! 
If,  Sirs,  the  faith  of  men  be  Force  alone, 
Let  us  ring  down — The  farce  is  nothing 

worth ! 

If  Life  be  only  prayer  to  things  of  stone, 
Come  Death!    And  let  us,  friends,  go  mock- 
ing forth ! 
But  if  there's  aught,   in  all  Time's  bloody 

hours, 

Of  Justice,  if  the  herbs  of  Pity  grow — 
O  Native  Land,  let  not  those  only  flowers 
Of  God  be  desert-strewn  and  withered  now! 


57 


Gaulzery  Moor 

Moor  of  my  fathers — the  road  leads  high — 

I,  a  slow-foot  traveller,  pass, 

Gorse  and  heather,  heather  and  grass, 

Up  to  the  curve  of  the  autumn  sky. 

Purple  are  all  the  darkening  tors 

That  crown  the  swift-retreating  day; 

The  far-blown  wood-smoke  steals  its  way 

From  stars  of  fire  in  the  cottage  doors; 

And   the   South-West  wind   with    her   reedy 

tune 

Sings  in  the  pines  her  wild,  soft  praise; 
There  hangs  a  golden,  mocking  moon 
At  the  Western  cornerways! 

Then,  ah!  beneath  these  native  trees 

To  press  my  body  to  the  earth; 

To  drink  the  life-wine  of  this  breeze, 

And — drinking — die  of  dearth! 


The  Moor  Grave 

I  lie  out  here  under  a  heather  sod, 

A  moor-stone  at  my  head;  the  moor-winds 
play  above. 

I  lie  out  here.  ...  In  graveyards  of  their 
God 

They  would  not  bury  desperate  me  who  died 
for  love. 

I  lie  out  here  under  the  sun  and  moon; 

Across  me  bearded  ponies  stride,  the  cur- 
lews cry. 

I  have  no  little  tombstone  screed,  no:  "Soon 

To  glory  shall  she  rise!"  But  deathless 
peace  have  I! 


59 


The  Prayer 

If  on  a  Spring  night  I  went  by 
And  God  were  standing  there, 
What  is  the  prayer  that  I  would  cry 
To  Him?    This  is  the  prayer: 

O  Lord  of  Courage  grave, 

O  Master  of  this  night  of  Spring! 

Make  firm  in  me  a  heart  too  brave 

To  ask  Thee  anything] 


60 


Dedication 

Thine  is  the  solitude  that  rare  flowers  know, 
Whose  face  is  slender  aristocracy. 
And  yet,  of  flowers  that  in  the  garden  grow, 
There's  none  disputes  thy  sweet  supremacy. 
Thine  is  the  oldest  secret  of  the  world: 
How  to  be  loved,  and  still  to  keep  apart — 
A  lily  blown,  a  bud  not  yet  uncurled — 
Gold-fortuned  I,  whose  very  breath  thou  art ! 


61 


SONGS 


Devon  to  Me! 

Where  my  fathers  stood 
Watching  the  sea, 
Gale-spent  herring-boats 
Hugging  the  lea; 
There  my  mother  lives, 
Moorland  and  tree. 
Sight  o'  the  blossom! 
Devon  to  me! 

Where  my  fathers  walked, 
Driving  the  plough; 
Whistled  their  hearts  out — 
Who  whistles  now? 
There  my  mother  burns 
Fire  faggots  free. 
Scent  o'  the  wood-smoke! 
Devon  to  me! 


Where  my  fathers  sat, 
Passing  their  bowls; 
— They've  no  cider  now, 
God  rest  their  souls! — 
There  my  Mother  feeds 
Red  cattle  three. 
Taste  o'  the  cream-pan! 
Devon  to  me! 

Where  my  fathers  sleep, 
Turning  to  dust, 
This  old  body  throw 
When  die  I  must! 
There  my  Mother  calls, 
Wakeful  is  She! 
Sound  o'  the  West-wind! 
Devon  to  me! 


66 


Where  my  fathers  lie, 
When  I  am  gone, 
Who  need  pity  me 
Dead?    Never  one! 
There  my  Mother  clasps 
Me.    Let  me  be ! 
Feel  o'  the  red  earth! 
Devon  to  me! 


A  Mood 

Love's  a  flower,  is  born  and  broken, 
Plucked  apace — and  hugged  apart. 
Evening  comes,  it  clings — poor  token — 
Dead  and  dry,  on  lover's  heart. 

Love's  the  rhyme  of  a  summer  minute 
Woven  close  like  hum  of  flies; 
Sob  of  wind,  and  meaning  in  it 
Dies  away,  as  summer  dies. 

Love's  a  shimmery  morning  bubble 
Puffed  all  gay  from  pipe  of  noon; 
Spun  aloft  on  breath  of  trouble — 
Bursts  in  air — is  gone — too  soon! 


68 


Counting  the  Stars 

The  cuckoo  bird  has  long  been  dumb, 
And  owls  instead  and  flitting  jars 
Call  out,  call  out  for  us  to  come, 
My  Love  and  me,  to  count  the  stars; 
And  into  this  wide  orchard  rove — 
The  whispering  trees  scarce  give  us  room, 
That  drop  their  petals  on  my  Love 
And  me  beneath  the  apple  bloom. 

And  each  pale  petal  is  alive 
With  dew  of  twilight  from  the  sky, 
Where  all  the  stars  hang  hi  their  hive, 
That  weVe  to  count,  my  Love  and  I. 
The  boughs  below,  the  boughs  above, 
They  scatter,  lest  their  twisted  gloom 
Should  stay  the  counting  of  my  Love 
And  me  beneath  the  apple  bloom. 


And  when  the  Mother  Moon  comes  by, 
And  puts  the  little  stars  to  bed, 
We  count,  my  timid  Love  and  I, 
The  pretty  apple  stars  instead; 
Until  at  last  all  lights  remove, 
And  dark  sleep  dropping  on  the  combe, 
Fastens  the  eyelids  of  my  Love 
And  me  beneath  the  apple  bloom. 


70 


Straw  in  the  Street 

Straw  in  the  street! 

My  heart,  oh!  hearken — 

Fate  thrums  its  song  of  sorrow! 

The  windows  darken- — 

O  God  of  all  to-morrow! 

Straw  in  the  street! 

To  wintry  sleeping 

Turns  all  our  summer  laughter. 

The  brooms  are  sweeping — 

There's  naught  for  me  hereafter! 


Cuckoo  Song:    Dartmoor 

Mayday  wears  a  summer  smile, 

Mayday  is  a  mummer, 

Sleepy  rills  and  fat  green  fields, 

All  the  coat  of  summer. 

Sturdy  blackthorn  twining  stars, 

Golden  gorse  a-shining, 

All  the  tors  blow  honey-sweet 

Honey  deaths  to  pining! 

Cuckoo's  tell-a-secret  song 
Mocks  the  bells,  mocks  the  bells. 
Whistle  back,  and  win  along! 
Win  along,  and  follow! 
Cuckoo's  on  the  restless  moor, 
Church  is  in  the  hollow! 


72 


Moorland  birdies  hopping  by, 

Skylark's  dew  a-dropping; 

Whispers  from  the  valley  stream, 

Crisp  the  ponies  cropping! 

Clash  your  bells!    Old  Church  have  done 

Of  wishing  you  may  get  me! 

I'll  go  worshipping  the  sun 

While  the  sun  will  let  me! 

Cuckoo's  fetter-breaking  song 

Mocks  the  bells,  mocks  the  bells! 

Come,  my  heart!    Let's  go  along! 

Go  along,  and  follow! 

Cuckoo's  on  the  living  moor, 

Church  is  in  the  hollow! 


73 


Countryman's  Song 

Ah !  trouble  and  trouble  and  sorrow ! 
My  heart  has  grown  cold  wi'  her  eyes. 
I'm  cheated  for  aye  o'  me  morrow, 
And  sick  to  be  laid  where  she  lies. 
For  what  does  it  matter  what's  comin'? 
'Tis  sure  to  be  better  than  this. 
Oh!  hollow  the  tune  I  am  hummin', 
An'  truth  that  I  starve  for  her  kiss. 

The  taste  o'  the  wind  as  it  passes, 
The  clocks  in  the  strikin'  o'  time, 
The  smell  o'  the  rain  in  the  grasses 
Were  she — an'  'tis  all  out  o'  rhyme. 
So  what  does  it  matter  what's  comin'? 
'Tis  sure  to  be  better  than  this. 
Oh!  hollow  the  tune  I  am  hummin', 
An'  truth  that  I  starve  for  her  kiss. 


74 


She  gave  me  a  long  look  o'  pity, 
Like  a  little  white  owl  from  a  tree, 
An'  dropped.  ...  So  this  wonderful  city 
Has  only  dead  ashes  for  me. 
An*  what  does  it  matter  what's  comin'? 
Tis  sure  to  be  better  than  this. 
Oh!  hollow  the  tune  I  am  hummin'! 
An'  oh!  to  be  done  wi'  it — bliss! 


75 


Land  Song  of  the  West  Country 

The  lanes  are  long,  and  home  is  far, 

But  we'll  go  jogging,  jogging  on. 

The  day  grows  dim,  here  comes  a  star, 

Athwart  the  bank  the  young  moon  peeps, 

And  all  the  honeysuckle  sleeps. 

But  we'll  go  jogging  on. 

The  sunset's  vanishing  apace, 
But  we'll  go  jogging,  jogging  on. 
The  land's  all  like  a  maiden's  face, 
The  more  you  look  the  less  you  see, 
'Tis  all  a  glowing  mystery. 
And  we'll  go  jogging  on. 


The  trout  are  rising  in  the  stream, 
We  ford  it,  jogging,  jogging  on. 
The  mill-wheel's  turning  in  a  dream; 
The  chafer's  booming  overhead, 
And  every  little  bird's  in  bed. 
And  we  go  jogging  on. 

The  cottages  are  praying  smoke, 
As  we  go  jogging,  jogging  on. 
The  hayrick's  bonneted  a-poke; 
The  tawny  kine  are  stretched  at  ease 
Beneath  the  dusky,  sleeping  trees, 
As  we  go  jogging  on. 


77 


There's  many  a  drop  of  tender  rain 
As  we  go  jogging,  jogging  on. 
And  many  a  while  that's  fine  again. 
There's  many  a  dip  and  many  a  rise, 
And  many  a  smile  of  friendly  eyes. 
There's  many  a  scent,  and  many  a  tune, 
And  over  all  the  little  moon, 
As  we  go  jogging  on. 


The  clocks  are  chiming  in  my  heart 
Their  cobweb  chime; 
Old  murmurings  of  days  that  die, 
The  sob  of  things  a-drifting  by. 
The  clocks  are  chiming  in  my  heart! 

The  stars  have  twinkled,  and  gone  out — 
Fair  candles  blown! 
The  hot  desires  burn  low,  and  wan 
Those  ashy  fires,  that  flamed  anon. 
The  stars  have  twinkled,  and  gone  out! 


79 


Old  journeys  travel  in  my  head! 
They  come  and  go — 
Forgotten  smiles  of  stranger  friends, 
Sweet,  weary  miles,  and  sweeter  ends. 
Old  journeys  travel  in  my  head ! 

The  leaves  are  dropping  from  my  tree! 

Dead  leaves  and  brown. 

The  vine-leaf  ghosts  make  pale  my  brow; 

For  ever  frosts  and  winter  now. 

The  leaves  are  dropping  from  my  tree! 


80 


When  Love  Is  Young 

When  Love  is  young,  she  needs  no  staff, 
No  teaching  how  to  lure  and  laugh; 
When  Love  is  young,  she  swoons  away — 
So  fiery  sweet  is  Love  in  May! 

When  Love  is  old,  she  has  no  toys, 
No  burning  hours,  no  rainbow  joys; 
When  Love  is  old,  she's  like  a  dove — 
Yet  strong  as  death  is  winter  Love! 


81 


Wind 

Wind,  wind — heather  gipsy, 
Whistling  in  my  tree! 
All  the  heart  of  me  is  tipsy 
On  the  sound  of  thee. 
Sweet  with  scent  of  clover, 
Salt  with  breath  of  sea. 
Wind,  wind — wayman  lover, 
Whistling  in  my  tree! 


82 


Rose  and  Yew 

Love  flew  by!    Young  wedding  day, 
Peeping  through  her  veil  of  dew, 
Saw  him,  and  her  heart  went  fey — 
His  wings  no  shadows  threw. 

Love  flew  by!    Young  day  was  gone, 
Owls  were  hooting — Whoo — to-whoo! 
Happy-wedded  lay  alone, 
Who'd  vowed  that  love  was  true. 

•  •••  •  •  •  ^ 

Love  flies  by,  and  drops  a  rose — 
Drops  a  rose,  a  sprig  of  yew! 
Happy  these — but  ah!  for  those 
Whose  love  has  cried:  Adieu! 


The  Cup 

Here  is  my  Cup;  a  fairy  bell, 
Where  the  wind's  rough  fluting  turns 
To  a  thin-tuned  sigh  of  shell! 
And  all  the  breath  of  melody 
In  sob  and  song  she  brings  to  me. 

Here  is  my  Cup;  a  crystal  pool 
Where  the  milk-white  moonlight  burns, 
And  the  golden  sunlight's  cool. 
As  twilight  dark,  like  dew  a-shine, 
The  goblet  she  of  every  wine. 


84 


Village  Sleep  Song 

Sleep!  all  who  toil; 
The  harvest  wains  have  lumbered  by. 
Cool  night  has  donned  her  dress  of  dew 
And  dusk;  so  dark's  the  sleepy  sky 
That  all  day  long  was  burning  blue. 

Sleep !  good  red  soil, 
That  gave  such  store  of  golden  grain; 
For  sleeping  lies  the  harvest  day, 
Asleep  the  winding  leafy  lane 
Where  none's  afoot  to  miss  his  way. 

Sleep !  village  street, 
You've  stared  too  long  upon  the  sun, 
More  gentle  are  the  eyes  of  night. 
Sleep,  windows!  all  your  work  is  done, 
And  all  too  soon  to-morrow's  light. 


Sleep !    Sleep !    The  heat 
Is  slumbering.    No  chafers  hum; 
And  fast  asleep  the  harvest  flowers. 
The  spinning  jars,  and  owls  have  come 
To  sing  to  sleep  the  drowsy  hours! 

Sleep!  honey  hives! 

And  swallow's  flight,  and  thrushes'  call! 

Sleep,  tongues!  a  little,  while  you  may, 

And  let  God's  cool  oblivion  fall 

On  all  the  gossip  of  the  day. 

Sleep!    Men  and  wives, 

A  sweetness  of  refreshment  steal; 

The  morning  star  can  vigil  keep; 

Too  quickly  turns  the  slumber  wheel — 

And  all  you  little  children,  sleep! 


86 


DOGGERELS 


Drake's  Spirit 

When  the  land  needs 
I  am  coming; 
I,  Francis  Drake, 
From  my  roaming. 
Till  then,  howl,  dogs 
Of  prophecy! 
I  yet  will  drive 
The  unknown  sea! 

If  my  land  calls 
I  am  coming; 
I,  Francis  Drake, 
From  my  roaming. 
So,  rest  my  drum! 
And  phantom  barque 
Still  for  a  while 
Go  sail  the  dark! 


89 


When  Heaven  wills, 
I  am  coming; 
I,  Francis  Drake, 
From  my  roaming. 
Then,  traitors  black, 
Grey  winds  all  foul, 
Do  ye  your  worst 
To  shake  my  soul! 


90 


Plymouth 

Stretched  at  fair  ease, 
Clear-eyed  I  watch  the  seas, 
My  finger  on  the  pulse  of  Time. 
No  nations  rise 

Until  my  captains  bid  them  climb. 
The  trade  of  worlds  I  signify; 
And  'neath  my  stones 
The  bones  of  sailors  lie. 


The  Cliff  Church 

Here  stand  I, 
Buttressed  over  the  seal 
Time  and  sky 
Take  no  toll  from  me. 

To  me,  grey — 

Wind-grey,  flung  with  foam- 

Ye  that  stray 

Wild-foot,  come  ye  home! 

Mother  I — 
Mother  I  will  be! 
Ere  ye  die, 
Hear!  0  sons  at  sea! 


92 


Shall  I  fall, 

Leave  my  flock  of  graves? 

Not  for  all 

Your  rebelling  waves! 

I  stand  fast — 
Let  the  waters  cry! 
Here  I  last 
To  Eternity! 


93 


Promenade 

All  sweet  and  startled  gravity 

My  Love  comes  walking  from  the  Park; 

Her  eyes  are  full  of  what  they've  seen — 

The  little  bushes  puffing  green, 

The  candles  pale  that  light  the  chestnut  tree. 

The  tulip  and  the  jonquil  spies; 

The  sunshine  and  the  sudden  dark; 

The  dance  of  buds;  and  Madam  Dove; 

Sir  Blackbird  fluting  of  his  love — 

These  little  loves  my  Love  has  in  her  eyes. 

In  dainty  shoes  and  subtle  hose 

My  Love  comes  walking  from  the  Park. 

She  is,  I  swear,  the  sweetest  thing 

That  ever  left  the  heart  of  Spring, 

To  tell  the  secret:  Whence  the  pollen  blows! 


94 


Tittle-Tattle 

Tittle-tattle!    Scandal  and  japes, 
Gibe,  and  gossip,  and  folly's  rattle! 
Ringed  to  fashion,  caught  like  apes 
In  your  cage  of  tittle-tattle! 

Mean  your  skies, 

And  mean  the  ways  you  tread; 

The  meanness  of  your  eyes 

Is  never  fully  fed. 

You  that  have  birth 

In  gold  and  grovellings! 

You  superfluity 

Of  miserable  earth, 

You  trousered  things 

And  women  without  souls — 

Out  of  the  sunlight 

To  your  holes! 


95 


Tittle-tattle!    Whisper  and  pry! 
Sneers  and  snigger,  and  empty  prattle! 
Truth  and  charity  into  a  lie 
To  the  tune  of  tittle-tattle! 


96 


The  Robin 

As  I  sit  hunting  for  the  word 

Each  morning  in  my  room,  there  comes, 

As  bold  as  day,  a  robin  bird, 

And  eats  up  all  the  breakfast  crumbs. 

0  little  friend!  so  still  as  air, 
As  your  own  bobbing  shadow,  still; 
0  bright  familiar,  strutting  there 
Till  you  have  pecked  your  little  fill — 

You  are  no  bird,  you  fairy  sprite 

In  hue  of  red,  and  hue  of  dust, 

Who  come  to  turn  dark  thoughts  to  light- 

For  what  are  you  but  living  trust? 


97 


To  My  Dog 

My  dear,  when  I  leave  you 
I  always  drop  a  bit  of  me — 
A  holy  glove  or  sainted  shoe — 
Your  wistful  corse  I  leave  it  to, 
For  all  your  soul  has  gone  to  see 
How  I  could  have  the  stony  heart 
So  to  abandon  you. 

My  dear,  when  you  leave  me 

You  drop  no  glove,  no  sainted  shoe; 

And  yet  you  know  that  humans  be 

Mere  blocks  of  dull  monstrosity, 

Whose  spirits  cannot  follow  you 

When  you're  away,  with  all  their  hearts, 

As  yours  can  follow  me. 


98 


My  dear,  since  we  must  leave 
(One  sorry  day)  I  you,  you  me; 
I'll  learn  your  wistful  way  to  grieve; 
Then  through  the  ages  we'll  retrieve 
Each  other's  scent  and  company; 
And  longing  shall  not  pull  my  heart — 
As  now  you  pull  my  sleeve! 


99 


4  The  Birth  of  Venus  " 

The  Spring  wind  fans  her  hair, 

And  after  her  fly  little  waves, 

Her  feet  are  shod  in  pearly  shoen, 

And  down  her  foam-white  breast  doth  shine 

A  silver  moisture,  and  new-strewn 

Petals  encarnadine. 

Her  eyes  are  deaths  to  care, 
Her  eyes  of  love  are  tender  caves. 
The  blossoms  blowing  on  the  trees — 
The  young  Spring's  soft  enchanted  stir — 
The  humming  of  the  golden  bees — 
All  are  the  voice  of  her! 


100 


To  the  Spirit  of  Our  Times.  1899 

(After  Sir  Walter  Raleigh) 

Tell  Life  she  smells  of  gold, 
And  Simpleness  is  gone; 
Old  Honesty  is  cold, 
And  Greatness  lives  alone. 
Tell  Arts  they  cringe  for  pelf, 
And  Pens  they  flourish  cant; 
Tell  Creeds  they  are  but  Self, 
And  Tongues  they  do  but  rant. 

Tell  Credit  and  Fair  Names 
They  show  too  smug  a  face, 
The  bow  of  Honour  aims 
Where  Honour  has  no  place. 
Young  Effort's  wing  is  down 
And  tries  no  more  to  soar; 
Since  Fair-Play  wears  the  frown 
Of  hatred  at  our  war. 


101 


Tell  Charity  she's  mean, 

Whose  light  is  never  hid; 

And  Mercy  she's  unseen 

When  such  as  women  bid. 

Our  Virtue's  name  is  treason, 

A  bond  of  empty  sealing. 

Tell  Hearts  they  live  by  reason, 

And  Heads  they  faint  with  feeling. 

Tell  Smiles  they  have  the  canker 

Inherent  of  conceit; 

False  Wit  it  is  but  rancour 

A-sneering  at  defeat. 

Tell  Victory  she's  breath 

That  has  no  longer  Beauty; 

And  Dignity  of  Death 

Which  saves  him  from  his  duty. 


102 


Tell  Chivalry's  complacent, 
And  Modesty  asleep; 
Prim  Decency  too  decent, 
And  Caution  all  too  deep. 
Tell  Journalists  their  teaching 
It  festers  in  the  city; 
And  Trade  of  overreaching, 
That  has  no  room  for  pity. 

Tell  Comfort  she's  too  sure; 
Tell  Patriots  they  seem. 
Our  Wealth  is  but  a  lure, 
A  brazen,  petty  dream. 
Ah !    Truth  it  has  no  core, 
But  plays  a  hollow  part; 
For  Justice  goes  no  more 
With  singleness  of  heart! 


103 


The  Flowers 

In  mountain  morn,  at  silver  dawn, 

From  out  the  grey  dew  smother, 

Flower  children  peep 

Through  cobweb  sleep, 

And  rise  from  Earth,  their  mother. 

To  mountain  sky — sun  golden  high 

In  his  cerulean  yonder — 

Like  starry  snow, 

They  jewel  below, 

And  lift  their  dewy  wonder. 

At  mountain  noon,  to  Zephyr  tune, 

Each  in  her  own  wild  fashion, 

Fey — young  and  old — 

With  scarves  of  gold 

They  weave  the  dance  of  passion. 


104 


Till  lost  in  dream,  by  dying  gleam- 
Broidery  rare  and  spangled — 
Their  perfumed  skein 
Is  wound  again, 
All  amethyst  entangled. 

And  soft  in  night,  by  moony  light, 

Under  the  moth's  pale  hover, 

Grey  witchery — 

Sweet,  velvet,  shy, 

They  touch  the  dark,  their  lover. 


105 


Hetaira 

She  gave  him  all  her  heart; 

She  slept  beside  him; 

She  lived  her  hour  in  dreaming  of  his  good. 

From  all  else  kept  apart 

That  he  might  pride  him: 

She  loved  him  only!    Surely  all  she  could! 

She  braved  his  darkest  mood 

To  cool  his  fever; 

Her  care  was  fairy  tale  that  never  ends. . 

And  when  she  died?    Ah!  would 

They  praise  her?    Never! 

You  see,  she  was  not  married  to  him,  Friends ! 


106 


The  Devon  Sage 

Zach'ry  lad!    Venture  does  et, 

'Tes  no  gude  to  set  an'  muzz  et! 

'Tidn'  for  yu  to  play  at  homin', 

All  yure  vathers  went  a-roamin'; 

Vish  be  plenty,  sea  be  wide, 

Never  know,  ontil  yu've  tried. 

Soon  as  ever  day  be  litten, 

There's  yure  motto,  bright  and  written! 

Sail,  no  matter  what  the  tide! 

Hold  on  vast  an'  grip  yure  saddle, 
Givin'  up's  all  viddle  vaddle! 
'Ave  no  truck  nor  trade  with  cantin', 
Gallivantin',  puzzivantin' ! 
Take  an'  du  !    If  one  don't  pay 
Get  yu  roun'  the  t'other  way. 
Kape  yure  lip  as  stiff  as  leather, 
Kape  yure  'eart  so  light's  a  veather! 
Never  snivel,  work  or  play! 


107 


Ef  yu're  beaten,  never  know  et, 
'Tesn'  policy  to  show  et. 
Wheel  spins  roun',  yure  turn's  a-comin', 
Rape  yure  'ead  up,  kape  on  hummin' ! 
Go  it  till  yu're  black  an'  blue, 
Never  cut  it  till  yu're  thru'. 
Step  et  double  ef  yu  valter; 
Yu've  a-got  to  break  yure  halter 
When  they  comes  to  hangin'  yu. 

Trouble  shakes  yu,  hold  on  vaster, 
Never  spell  the  word  dizaster. 
Take  yure  rain  an'  take  yure  sunnin', 
Kape  yure  mouth  shut  when  yu're  runnm'; 
Talk's  but  talk,  an'  done  'tes  done, 
Braggart's  not  yure  mother's  son. 
'Unter,  varmer,  vighter,  rover, 
Slape  yure  slape  when  all  es  over — 
Life  an'  Death  'tes  nowt  but  one! 


108 


Rhyme  After  Rain 

Starry-eyed  is  April  morn, 
Rainbells  glitter  on  the  thorn. 
Birds  are  tuning  down  the  lane 
Patter  song  of  fallen  rain. 
Spring  can  grieve,  but  Spring  can  be 
Very  life  of  minstrelsy! 

Gather  the  sob,  gather  the  song! 

Neither  will  last,  neither  will  last! 

All  is  yours,  but  not  for  long, 

Life  travels  fast! 

Rainbow's  dipping  out  to  sea, 
Lambs  do  whisper  devilry. 
Leaves  are  sweet  as  e'er  you've  seen, 
Sun  is  golden,  grass  is  green, 
Meadow's  pied  with  flowers  wet, 
Thrushes  sing:  "Forget,  forget!" 

Gather  the  grey,  gather  the  gleam! 

Neither  will  last,  neither  will  last! 

Certainty — 'tis  but  a  dream! 

Life  travels  fast! 


109 


Gorse  has  lit  his  lanterns  all, 

Cobwebbed  thrift's  a  fairy  ball, 

Earth  it  smells  as  good  as  new, 

Winds  are  merry,  sky  is  blue. 

Spring  has  laughter,  Spring  has  tears, 

Life  has  courage,  life  has  fears. 
Gather  the  tears,  gather  the  mirth! 
Neither  will  last,  neither  will  last! 
Old  Year's  death  is  Young  Year's  birth- 
Life  travels  fast! 


no 


Life? 

Life?    What  is  Life? 
The  leaping  up  of  level  wave; 
The  flaring  of  an  ashy  fire; 
The  living  wind  in  airless  grave! 

Death?    What  is  Death? 
The  dying  of  immortal  sun; 
The  sleeping  of  the  sleepless  moon; 
The  end  of  story  not  begun! 


in 


OS875 


DATE  DUE 


^9875 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000812167     5 


